The Long Night
by mcatB
Summary: A hunt goes bad. Sam needs to take care of injured Dean while they wait out the night...
1. Chapter 1

The Long Night

Mady Bay

"I can't remember the last time I've been this happy to see the sun," Sam said, lifting his brother into his arms, readying them for the long walk back to the Impala.

Eleven hours, thirteen minutes earlier… 

"Sam! It's six-thirty! Time to get this show on the road!" Dean called, banging on the bathroom door.

Despite his impatience, Sam could tell Dean really wasn't too anxious to go hunting. Foogers were not high on his list of things that needed to be killed, but they were the only ones in the area qualified to do it. Their dad was still MIA and Bobby and Pastor Jim were in their own parts of the country, too far away to deal with the mess they'd found in the Adirondacks of New York.

Dean had said he and his Dad had destroyed a couple of Fooger nests over the past few years, but overall, they were rare creatures. He'd wondered aloud more than once about their growing population in the wilds of the Northeast – another nest of them showing up only four years after their last encounter here – it made him rethink what they truly knew about the beings' origins, habits and abilities.

Sam came out of the bathroom, sat on his bed, and picked up the weapons Dean had laid out. "Rock salt _and_ silver?" he questioned.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. "They react badly to the salt, like ghosts and demons. Still won't kill 'em, though. Still need the silver for that," he added.

"So the rock salt slows them down, and then you hit them with the silver?"

"Yeah. They're quick little bastards. You don't want to use the silver unless you know it's gonna hit the target; shit's getting expensive," he replied, checking his own weapons.

"I still can't believe I've never heard of these things; why you or Dad never told me about them."

Dean shrugged and went back to checking and packing his own weapons. "It's not like they're on the top of the list of baddies in the world," he said with a smirk and another shrug of his shoulders.

"What'd you call them? Possessed koala bears?"

"_Slimy_ possessed koala bears," Dean corrected, giving his little brother a look, making sure he heard him.

"Slimy?"

"There's a reason why Fooger rhymes with booger, Sammy," Dean explained, a sly grin on his face.

A look of shock came across Sam's face. "Oh, my God. _You_ named them!" Sam exclaimed.

Dean looked down, embarrassed at first, then shot back, "Well, Dad hit me every time I called them "fucking boogers," so I just shortened it."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't believe you," he said, shaking his head. "I can't believe we're going after these things."

Ignoring Sam's attitude, Dean stood up and pulled his duffel bag over his shoulder, heading for the door. "Come on, I want to get out there before dark."

Not liking the situation, but not about to let his brother go off on his own, Sam grabbed his duffel bag and followed Dean out, asking, "So how'd you and Dad work it the last time?"

The Impala was parked right outside their motel room door. Dean threw his bag into the back seat of the car, unconcerned about locking the weapons in the trunk, as they only had a few miles to drive to the hiking trail they'd be using. Sam followed suit and got into the passenger seat of the car.

"Just a matter of finding the things and shooting," Dean said, continuing their conversation. "_Finding_ being the key word here," he added, "as they only come out at night. The first time we went after them, Dad and I spent a week trying to find them during the daytime; you know, hoping to find their nests while they slept, but, nada."

Sam nodded in understanding. Of course. Nothing they hunt ever comes out during the day…

"I'll shoot them with the rock salt and you finish 'em with the silver," Dean finished.

"Sounds like a plan," his brother agreed. Not much different than usual.

Dean seemed fairly confident and the scouting they'd done had indicated that they were probably only dealing with one or two of the things. But Sam still had to wonder about them, these… things. He couldn't even say their name anymore. He wondered what they might have been before some witch or demon transformed them into the slimy little beasts they now were.

00000

Fifteen minutes later had Dean parking the Impala at the end of a dead end road, and the entrance to a well-used trail into the woods. There were three farms nearby, each bordering on part of the State-owned forest, each of which had lost several head of cattle. The local police and forest rangers had chalked the killings up to a cougar or wolf in the area, but Dean had seen signs of the Foogers – namely the awful smelling slime they tended to leave behind. The police and rangers hadn't been able to explain that.

The brothers made their way in, easily so far, as the sun hadn't gone down completely and still shone through to the path they followed. Dean had wanted to come before sundown, but not so early that they'd meet up with anyone else, stray hikers _or_ rangers.

"Lay the salt circle over there, Sammy," Dean instructed, pointing to a small clearing. "We'll keep the extra ammo and salt in there."

"You think these things are gonna steal our guns?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"Just keeping the bases covered, Little Brother. Lay the circle."

Dean was playing the 'I'm the big brother, so just do what I say,' card, but Sam really didn't feel like arguing right now, so he shrugged and did as instructed, pouring the rock salt on the ground, making a circle about seven feet across.

"So now what? You got a special Fooger call?"

Dean ignored the remark. Sam wasn't taking this seriously enough. Instead of replying, he reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a plastic grocery bag. From it, he pulled out a dead raccoon and threw it out away from him, watching as it landed about fifteen feet away. "Chumming the waters," he said quietly.

"When'd you pick up the road kill?"

"This afternoon while you were in the shower. I remembered seeing it when we pulled in to the motel parking lot."

"You sure they'll go after it?" Sam asked. "Don't they prefer fresh meat?"

"It's still fresh enough. It's the smell of blood they go for," Dean explained.

Sam just looked at him skeptically. "If it's the smell of blood they go for, then why…"

"I don't know," Dean interrupted. "Maybe the livestock they got were injured already or something."

Sam just shrugged, again. "So we just wait for 'em? Or go looking?"

Dean picked up on Sam's impatience. "Waiting is just fine with me, I got nowhere else to be tonight. Do _you _have somewhere else to be tonight, Sammy?" Before Sam knew what he was doing, he was looking away uncomfortably and Dean smiled. "That _was _Sarah that called you before!" he exclaimed. "Shit! We're what, two hours away from her? Damn, Sammy! Why didn't you tell me? I coulda handled this!" He switched on his flashlight and began scanning the area.

"Dean…" The name came out almost whiny.

He was really getting tired of Dean's teasing and was about to beg him once again to stop, when Dean suddenly shouted, "Sam! Down!"

The younger Winchester knew better than to doubt that tone of voice and immediately dropped to the ground, covering his head with his arms. The rapport from Dean's shotgun sounded and Sam thought he heard a dull thud to the right and behind him. When he saw Dean's feet walk past him, he rose from the ground, turning on his flashlight, ready to get his first look at the little beast.

Their first kill of the night lie writhing on the ground as Dean approached it, his shotgun still trained on it. Sam moved in next to his brother and aimed his silver bullet loaded Glock at the thing and fired, stilling its movements.

Sam bent and took a closer look at the dead animal. "Okay. It's a Fooger," he agreed.

"Now the fun _really_ begins," Dean said.

"Fun?" Sam balked. "Dean! That thing isn't any bigger than a raccoon!"

"Watch out, Sam, here comes another one!" Dean shouted just before firing again, hitting another of the small beasts.

When Sam just looked at Dean in mild annoyance, still not believing what they were hunting, Dean took out his own handgun full of silver bullets and finished off the second Fooger.

"You wanna stay with the program here, Sammy?" he remarked, stowing the handgun and reloading the shotgun.

Sam just rolled his eyes at him and moved away from the now-starting-to-smell dead Fooger.

00000

Two hours later and Sam was at his wits' end. No other Foogers had shown up since Dean had killed the second one. He couldn't understand why his older brother had wanted to stay.

"I thought you said there'd only be one or two of these things, Dean," Sam complained. He tried not to sound _too_ whiny. "We've got our two…"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean replied, still ever watchful of the area around them, panning his flashlight to and fro. "These two are a lot smaller than the ones Dad and I got last time. I'm thinking these are the kids; that Mommy and Daddy Fooger are still out there somewhere."

Tired, Sam sat down next to one of the duffel bags and sighed. He looked at his watch.

They stayed silent for a while, Sam brooding a bit, Dean still looking and listening for more of their prey. A cool breeze came through the woods. Sam started coughing as the dead Foogers' odor hit him. "Damn, Dean, can't we move those things?"

Dean moved closer to the first corpse, and grabbing it by one of its paws, carefully lifted it. He brought it over to the second one and dropped it to the ground. "Gonna have to pile 'em up to burn them later anyway," he muttered. He'd just turned to face Sam, adding a snarky "Happy?" to his muttering, when he heard the growl.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, bringing up his shotgun and flashlight.

But they were too late. The adult Fooger, indeed about the size and shape of a large koala, had already knocked the older Winchester to the ground, knocking his shotgun out of his hand.

Sam was already on his feet, running toward Dean, cursing his ambivalence. "Dean!"

Dean did his best to roll around, trying to get the creature off of his back, and protect his head at the same time. He let out a scream as the thing bit into his right shoulder.

Sam was about to shoot the Fooger, to get it off and away from Dean, when he heard the sounds of another one heading his way. He quickly turned, flashlight catching the red glow of its eyes, and shot, the rock salt hitting the Fooger on its chest, causing it to screech in pain and halt its progress. By the time he turned back toward Dean, he'd reloaded and sent a shot of rock salt into the side of the one attacking his brother, dislodging it.

Dean was crawling toward Sam, the Fooger's vicious attack leaving him unable to stand on his own. Sam reached down and grabbed his outstretched hand and practically dragged him back to the salt circle he'd laid earlier. Just as they reached its border, Sam let go of Dean and let off two more shots of rock salt, hitting one of the Foogers again.

Sam quickly got Dean into the circle and then patched up the gap they'd made while crossing, enclosing them in what he hoped would be a safe place. He dropped the shotgun and picked up his Glock and flashlight, searching for the adult Foogers, hoping to finish them off.

"Dean? You okay?" he asked, continuing to turn in circles above him, searching for the beasts, his eyes keen and alert now. _Too late…_

When Dean didn't reply, Sam dropped the flashlight beam down to look at his brother. "Oh, God, Dean."

Dean's tee shirt was no longer white, but a mixture of red, brown and green, Dean's red blood having mixed sickeningly with the brown mud and green Fooger slime.

Sam dropped to his knees next to Dean and patted his face. "Dean? Come on, Dean, wake up," he pled, needing to see his brother's hazel eyes.

"Sammy?" Dean called, his voice a mixture of painful moan and breathless croak.

"Yeah, Dean," he replied, relief in his voice. "I'm so sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry," he went on, moving the flashlight's beam over his brother's body to check for injuries. "Where did it get you?"

"Shoulder…leg," Dean replied. He tried to sit up, but immediately gasped out in pain, only to fall back onto the ground, his injured shoulder bearing his weight. "Oh, fuck!" he cried out.

"Easy, easy," Sam murmured, gently holding Dean down. "Just lie still."

Sam shone the light onto Dean's leg first and winced at the sight of the shredded, blood soaked denim covering his right thigh. After laying the flashlight on top of his duffel bag, aiming the light's beam over Dean, he brought out his pocketknife and began removing the material that still covered Dean's right leg. He tore some of the cleaner remnants into strips.

"Gotta stop the bleeding, Dean. Just hang on, okay?" he told him in way of a warning.

Dean practically screamed when Sam lifted his leg up, shoving the strip underneath it, wrapping it tightly around the wound.

Though pain was a big part of his current world, and his breaths were coming in rapid succession, nearly hyperventilating, Dean was still clear headed. "Sam… the Foogers… still out there?"

Sam grabbed the flashlight and looked around quickly. "None nearby, but I think they'll be back. We gotta get out of here before they do," he replied and returned to work, tying off a knot on the makeshift bandage, making Dean cry out again.

"No," Dean argued. "We're stuck here…for the night."

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Dean... you might not have all night! You've lost too much blood already."

"If we… stay… at least… one of us…walks out…of here."

Sam shook his head furiously and went back to work on Dean's wounds. "No," was all he said, and reset the flashlight onto the duffel bag again.

"Sam… Sam look at me!" Dean shouted. "Sam!" When Sam finally stopped working and met his brother's gaze, he continued, "You've seen them… Sammy. Do you… do you really… think we can… God!" Dean screamed in frustration, his pain keeping him from thinking and speaking properly. "We… I… can't outrun them. Not like this."

Sam swallowed against his own pain, not liking the fact that Dean was right. They'd have to wait out the night, hours to go before dawn, before it would be safe to leave the circle. He took a deep breath and let it out before returning to his ministrations, tending Dean's shoulder wound.

"Fine," he said. "But if you wind up bleeding to death, I'm gonna kill you."

**A/N: Special thanks to November's Guest for the awesome beta job!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Fine… just make sure… you kill these…fucking… things… first!" Dean got out, before adding, "Oh, shit, Sammy!" as Sam ripped his tee shirt and removed it.

"Dean?" Sam asked, getting his brother's attention again and moving the flashlight beam to get a better look at the bloody bite marks. "We need silver to kill these things… Does that mean… Shit. Dean? Do I need to worry about you turning into a Fooger? You know, like when someone gets bit by a werewolf?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't _think_ so!" Sam balked, leaning down to look Dean in the eyes.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut tight. This was supposed to be an easy job. "Dad and I… we never found any… anything that changed. They always… kill."

Sam nodded mutely and refocused on Dean's shoulder. After casting the flashlight beam around the outside of the circle, checking for Foogers, he moved toward his duffel bag. Opening it up, he moved aside the guns and ammo and grabbed several flasks of holy water and other first aid supplies. He never faulted their dad for drilling into them the necessity of carrying first aid supplies wherever they went, even if said supplies included more than the usual bandages and antibiotics...

"I'm gonna douse these bites with holy water anyway," Sam told his brother, getting a nod in return.

He took a small dressing first, and wiped away the blood in and around the wound, wincing just as much as Dean did.

"Ready?" he asked, preparing Dean for what might be even more painful, if Fooger bites reacted the same way to holy water as werewolf bites did.

"Do it."

And Sam did, pouring the contents of one of the flasks over the bite marks. He was relieved when no steam came up, no burning of flesh happened, and therefore Dean only let out a slight hiss in reaction.

"Are you sighing… in relief as much as… me?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied. He truly was relieved. Then he took a large trauma dressing and pressed it against the bite mark.

That got Dean squirming and cursing, "Fucking Foogers."

Sam taped the dressing down and moved back to look at Dean's leg and saw that it was bleeding through the too-quick bandage he'd already put on. But what also caught _his_ eyes were the several pairs of glowing red ones surrounding them.

He quickly reached for a handgun, aimed it and the flashlight toward the beasts, and let loose a half dozen or so shots. He heard at least two screeches, so he'd made at least that many hits. He slowly circled around, gun and flashlight still pointing the way, and searched for more targets. He saw two dead Foogers about three feet from the salt circle, about five feet from where Dean lay. He circled again and when he saw no more of the things, returned his attention to his brother.

"Dean? You okay?" he asked, putting down his weapon and picking up another trauma dressing and another flask of holy water.

"Yeah. You get any?" Dean answered, dropping his head back down to the ground and relaxing the grip he'd had on his gun.

"Two," Sam answered. Looking down at Dean's leg, he winced and shook his head.

He adjusted the flashlight one more time and undid the messy bandage. He wiped away as much blood as he could and doused this wound with the second flask of holy water. Sam did what was needed next. He put the dressing over the wound and pressed down. Hard.

"Oh, fuck! Shit! Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, arching up off the ground. After a few minutes, after he'd gotten used to the pain and slowed down his breathing, he managed to add, "It's gonna be… a long…fuckin'…night…Sammy."

00000

Two hours later had Sam once again at his wits' end. He hadn't seen nor heard another Fooger nearby since he'd shot the two that were still lying just outside their salt circle. And those two were even worse smelling than the first two he and Dean had shot. But Sam didn't dare complain about the smell this time. He would put up with it. All night if he had to, which he did. He was still feeling guilty about asking Dean to move that other one. If only he hadn't been such a pain earlier, basically whining about the job if he were to admit it, Dean wouldn't have left the circle, wouldn't have moved that dead Fooger for him, wouldn't have been attacked.

"Not your fault, Sammy."

_Damn. How the hell does he do that? _

Dean had been lying quietly beside him, his lower right leg propped up on one of the duffel bags.

"Dean… If I-"

"Not your fault," Dean repeated. "And I know you're thinking that because I always know. Hell, Sammy, you'd hold the patent on guilt if it was possible."

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. Then he gently put his hand on Dean's arm, making contact. "How're you feeling?" he asked.

"I'm fine-"

"Dean-" Sam cut Dean off.

"Let me finish, Sam," Dean interrupted right back. "I'm _fine,_ as long as I don't move."

Sam moved his hand to Dean's forehead. He was surprised that Dean didn't try to swat it away. "You really _are_ hurting," he murmured. Dean felt a little warmer than he had an hour ago. "You're getting a fever," he said.

"Not surprising," Dean replied. "Who the hell knows what's in that fuckin' Fooger slime."

Sam heard the weariness in Dean's voice. He reached for a water bottle and helped him take a sip.

"So when was it that you and Dad first hunted these things?" he asked, making conversation now, keeping his brother awake, passing the time.

"About a year after you left. It was further north, closer to Canada, though."

Sam nodded, even though he knew Dean wouldn't see it. "You warm enough?" Earlier, he'd found a couple of emergency blankets – those thin metallic ones that folded up so small they'd fit in your hand – and covered Dean in them.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Sam nodded again. "Have another sip of water," he suggested.

A/N: Sorry this is so short, but I figure it's better than nothing at this point… Sorry it took so long to update, but that's life…


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Once again apologies for the delay – and this was a long one! You'd think after all this time I'd have more than 3 pages of stuff… but that's the life and death of a muse for you. Thanks go out to November's Guest for the beta reading and drool-worthy pics of Dean she sends me for inspiration.**

Sam pressed a button on the side of his watch, illuminating the dial, and checked the time. It was only 2:14. They still had hours to go before sunrise and he was beginning to really worry about Dean. While the wounds had stopped bleeding, whatever was in the Foogers' slime seemed to have given his brother an instant infection. Within only an hour or two, Dean had developed a fever – and as the night progressed, he had become less and less coherent.

Sam smiled sadly. At first, it had been kind of funny. When Dean was telling him about his and their dad's first encounter with the Foogers, he'd let slip some other details of the trip. He still couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Dean and their father stopping at the State Fair, in Syracuse, even if it _was_ mainly to see a Journey concert, after the Fooger hunt was over. And something about a butter sculpture…?

"You still with me, big brother?" he asked Dean. A tired sounding grumble was what he got in reply. "How about some more water?" It was said as more of a suggestion than a question as he opened a bottle of water. He received another grumble and a headshake. "Tough," Sam replied, gently putting his hand under Dean's head, lifting him up just enough and putting the water bottle to Dean's parched mouth.

Dean managed a few swallows before turning his head away, whispering, "Enough."

Sam nodded and eased Dean back down.

"Where are they?" Dean asked.

Sam lifted the flashlight off the ground and turned it on. He aimed the beam toward the woods around them, turning it in a full circle. He sighed.

"I don't know," he said, turning off the flashlight and putting it back down. "I haven't seen any for a half hour or so. And then, they didn't come close enough to shoot. I don't know if they're waiting to see if we leave the circle or are trying to figure a way to get to in."

"Mm," Dean responded. "Keep… keep..." He swallowed roughly, trying to get the words out.

Sam heard Dean struggling to talk, his words interrupted by short gasps and swallows. "Dean?" he called, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He quickly turned the flashlight back on – just in time to see his brother's head tip back and his mouth open in time with the spasms that traveled from Dean's stomach to his throat. "Oh, shit, Dean…" he swore as he hurriedly rolled his brother onto his side, just in time to prevent him from choking on the vomit that had already started coming up.

Sam did his best to get Dean onto his hands and knees, hands supporting his abdomen and head, and kept him out of the growing puddle below. "Easy, easy," Sam soothed, as the sounds and smells assaulted his senses, threatening to make him throw up, too.

Sam was also aware of just how close they were to the edge of the salt circle, and how close the puddle was getting to it, threatening a break in their line of protection.

As Dean's body calmed down, his stomach only capable of producing weak dry heaves now, Sam took his hand away from Dean's forehead. Gently rubbing his brother's shoulder first, he then began tossing dirt on the puddle, stopping its progress toward the salt.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore quietly, his voice rough. Then he cursed again as he collapsed back down onto his side, Sam barely catching him as he fell, and fiery pain shot from his wounds.

Sam gathered Dean up and away from the mess he'd made and held his brother up against his chest as he sat back down.

"Check-" Dean got out between clenched teeth, reaching for the flashlight.

"I got it," Sam said, grabbing the flashlight and doing a sweep of the salt circle first, making sure it was intact. Then, he shone the beam around again, stopping when it caught a flash of red. "There's one," he said, and then continued the sweep, checking for others. He found no more eyes watching, and moved the light back to where he'd seen the Fooger. It was still there, still waiting. "No good shot," he told Dean, apologetically, who then dropped his head back against Sam's shoulder, dejected, tired.

Next, Sam shone the flashlight down on his brother, making sure the bandages were still intact, still working. He apologized quietly when he moved Dean forward a bit, to check his shoulder, Dean letting out a short cry of pain.

When Dean began to shiver, Sam grabbed up the emergency blankets that had come off while Dean was throwing up, wrapped them around his brother once again, and held him close.

"A few more hours, Dean. A few more hours," he murmured over the top of Dean's head.

00000

The Fooger Sam had spotted after Dean had gotten sick a little over an hour ago hadn't moved. It still watched them, still stared at them, never moving closer or changing its position. Sam almost wished it would come closer, his need to kill the thing getting stronger as the night progressed.

He shifted position again, trying to stretch out his back as he sat there holding Dean, his arms around his brother, flashlight in one hand, Glock in the other. He'd already tried to maneuver their duffel bags so that he could lean back against them, but they weren't big enough, or sturdy enough to support him – let alone he and Dean together. But he wouldn't let go of Dean – not now. He didn't dare lie down to get comfortable; didn't dare let his guard down. He needed to maintain their meager defense, be ready to shoot any fucking booger, Fooger, who came close, who tried to hurt his brother again.

The fever and wounds were continuing to take their toll on the older Winchester. Sam could feel the tremors wracking Dean, his brother unable to maintain body heat. That was another reason he didn't dare move, or lay Dean down to ease the pain and tension in his own back. He was the only thing keeping Dean from going hypothermic. Sam shook his head. He never understood how someone with a high fever could possibly be cold…

"Sam…"

Sam heard the tone of Dean's voice, his name a simple plea. And a warning: Dean was going to be sick again. Sam quickly pulled back the emergency blanket and rolled the two of them to the side, just in time for Dean's rebellious stomach to take control of his body.

When it was over, and Dean's dry heaves subsided, Sam took a moment to stretch more fully, cracking his back, neck and shoulders. Then he pulled Dean's boneless form back against his chest and wrapped the blankets around them once again.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered. "I should have taken this more seriously. I'm sorry."

Dean didn't reply.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam's head shot up and, holding his breath, he sent the flashlight beam searching around them. He cursed himself for nodding off. When he was sure the salt line was still intact and no Foogers had come any closer, he looked at his watch.

"Damn it!"

He'd been asleep for almost an hour.

"Dean?" 

Dean managed to let out a moan and Sam sighed in relief, happy that he'd gotten a response. They were both alive and his little nap had been harmless.

Sam grabbed the water bottle and tried to get Dean to take a sip or two. Most of what Sam poured into Dean's mouth wound up dribbling down his chin, but he did manage a few gulps before weakly pushing the bottle away.

"Don' wanna puke again," he slurred.

Sam nodded in agreement and recapped the bottle, putting it back into the duffle bag.

"Time?" Dean asked.

"Only four-thirty or so. We still got another hour, hour and a half before dawn," Sam replied.

Dean nodded, shivered and leaned into Sam's embrace, searching for warmth. Sam readjusted the blankets and held Dean closer.

"So tell me more about that state fair, Dean," Sam suggested. "You and Dad find any mother/daughter teams to hook up with?"

Dean snorted, disgusted. "Oh, man, Sammy," he said. "Don'…don' even go there."

Dean grumbled some more, mumbled something about nightmare inducing images, but it was the reaction Sam was hoping for.

"Come on, Dean. It was a state fair. I'm sure there were lots of young women prancing around in their Daisy Dukes, showing off their prize pigs. You were probably in hog heaven," he continued to tease, laughing at his pun

Dean just groaned and shook his head.

"Okay, then," Sam tried again, "What, you two spent your time at the arcade, shot everything in sight at the shooting gallery until the carnies had to start refusing your money because they figured you two for ringers?"

Sam got a little scared when Dean didn't reply and moved one of his hands over Dean's chest, to make sure he was still breathing

But Dean moved the hand away, taking his time to think over the question, and then replied, "Dad… got kicked out. I made sure… to miss… enough times… to keep suspicions down."

"Yeah, you missed on purpose. Right."

"I did!" Dean retorted, twisting to try to look at Sam in the eye. "Aagh, shit!" he cursed, when his shoulder twisted, bringing hot fiery pain with it.

"Easy, Dean, easy," Sam scolded gently, holding onto his brother a little tighter, hoping to keep him from moving too much. It was then that the eerie screeching began, sounding something like a sick cross between Godzilla and a Howler Monkey. "What the fuck?"

"Fuckin' Foogers," Dean replied, his tone of voice giving Sam the slap on the back of his head that his hands couldn't.

The screeching got louder, a sign that the Foogers were getting closer. Sam scooched out from under Dean, making sure Dean was covered with the blankets, and then stood over him, Glock and flashlight back in his hands. He turned in place, trying to locate the beasts, hoping they'd come close enough to get a good shot at them. He really needed for this night to be over.

Sound and movement to his right caught his attention. Sam whipped around, found his target in a pair of glowing red eyes, and fired. More movement, to his left this time, and again Sam whirled and fired. With all the shrieking going on, he wasn't sure if he'd gotten either of the Foogers he'd shot at. He shot a few more times as he constantly circled, careful not to step on Dean as he did so, and thought he hit at least three more of the Foogers.

"How you doing, Dean?" he called down, still alert.

Unfortunately, Dean wasn't. Silence was his only answer. Sam reached a hand down, felt his brother's face and neck, felt his fever and pulse, and stood back up.

"Come on you furry little slimeballs," Sam murmured as he began moving in his slow circle again.

Sam fired six more shots, changed magazines and shot twice more before the shrieking finally stopped. Could he have gotten them all? Sam hoped, but he didn't bet on it. He began to wonder why the things had stayed quiet all night, only to start their screeching, and possible attack now. He looked at the sky. It was starting to lighten up a bit in the east. Could that have had something to do with it? A last ditch effort to attack the two of them before sunrise?

Sam decided that he didn't care. He made another quick check of the salt circle with the flashlight, making sure it was still intact, before sinking to his knees next to Dean, again putting a hand to his brother's chest, making sure he was still there, still alive.

He figured he had at least a good half an hour to go before sunrise. Getting Dean medical attention was his first priority as soon as the sun rose, but he'd have to do something with their weapons, too. He couldn't just leave shotguns and ammo lying about in a state forest. But there was no way he could carry both the duffels and Dean, nor would he have time for two trips to the car.

Sam remembered seeing a few downed trees on their way to the clearing. He thought they might provide enough cover for most of their supplies, which he could then get later. He believed he could take the guns in one of the duffel bags with them, though.

That decision made, Sam started sorting through the bags. He put some of their guns – the two shotguns and two of the pistols – in one bag, stuck one pistol in his waistband and left another by the duffel. That one would be carried in his free hand. The rest of the stuff – first aid supplies, wooden stakes, holy water, drinking water and ammo – he put in the other duffel bag. As soon as the sun rose, he'd hide that second bag under the fallen trees and then get Dean and the guns out.

He thought for a second or two about the dead Foogers he'd be leaving behind, but that was about it. He didn't care who found these things at this point. Maybe the survivors would come eat them for snack later on…

00000

When Sam judged it to be light enough, he picked up the bag of supplies, grabbed his Glock and headed for the fallen trees. He made it there and back in less than five minutes, without hearing or seeing any sign of any Foogers. This trip had been about more than hiding the supplies – it was a test run, to see if he'd be able to get Dean out without any more Fooger encounters.

Looking around one more time, he slung the weapons bag over his shoulder.

"I can't remember the last time I've been this happy to see the sun," Sam said, lifting his brother into his arms, readying them for the long walk back to the Impala.

Dean murmured softly and Sam thought he caught a flash of green eyes.

**A/N: Yes, I know… it's been too long since I updated this fooging thing. Real life can really suck sometimes. So can procrastination and muse abandonment. I hope this is worth the wait and I can finish this before the end of the year. Thanks for hanging in. And special thanks go to November's Guest for the cheerleading. Go Dean! RAH!! That flash of green was for you!**


	5. Chapter 5

"Damn, Dean, you gotta cut down on those peanut M&Ms," Sam muttered, trying to balance both his brother and the duffel bag as he walked.

He'd made it about fifteen paces when he heard a Fooger screeching. "Crap." Sam eased Dean down to the ground, adjusted the duffel, and pulled Dean up and over his shoulder into a fireman's carry. He did his best to ignore the painful moan Dean released as his wounds were grabbed and stretched. Grunting as he stood, Sam's Glock once again became an extension of his hand as he held it out in front of him, turning a quick circle to check for the Fooger.

"If I have to see one of these things in daylight, Dean, you're _so_ not gonna hear the end of it," Sam threatened his unconscious brother as he picked up his step and headed down the trail.

Luckily for Sam, no more Foogers appeared, let alone screeched anymore. He took it as the beast's parting warning to the brothers. Twenty minutes after they left the clearing, Sam caught sight of the Impala and sighed in relief.

He eased Dean down onto the ground and dropped the duffel bag next to him. Grabbing the keys, he opened the passenger side door, reached in and unlocked the rear door and opened it up.

Putting a hand to Dean's cheek, Sam tried to rouse his brother. "Dean? Hey, Dean, you with me?"

Seeing Dean in the daylight, Sam cringed. His brother looked horribly pale –or at least what parts weren't covered in blood, dirt or Fooger slime. He wiped gobs of it off Dean's neck and chest and flicked them onto the ground, away from them. He quickly checked the bandages on Dean's leg and shoulder – retying the one on his leg – before manhandling him into the back seat of the car.

After locking all their weapons in the trunk, Sam unlocked the driver's door and got in. He started the car and flipped on his cell phone at the same time and cursed at the continued lack of cell service. "You're in the frickin' mountains, in the middle of nowhere, of course there's no service," he swore, dropping the phone back into his jacket pocket.

Not knowing where the nearest hospital was, he did the next best thing – he drove to the sheriff's office. If Dean were anywhere near coherent, he'd have just brought him back to the motel they'd been staying at. But the speed in which the infection spread, when added to the blood loss and dehydration, were all working against Dean and he needed more care than Sam could provide.

It was a fifteen-minute drive – about ten miles from where they'd entered, and left, the forest – to the Sheriff's office. Sam left the car running with the heat blasting as he ran inside the office.

"I need some help!" he called, getting the desk officer's attention. "My brother's hurt. I need to find the nearest hospital."

The deputy at the desk took a quick look at Sam – seeing his blood, mud and slime covered clothing – and asked, "Your brother look worse off than you?"

"He was attacked by a wolf or something, in the woods. He's lost a lot of blood," Sam replied. "Please."

"Nearest hospital is sixty five miles away. But there's a clinic in town – we can wake up Doctor Honnick."

"Where? I'll drive there now," Sam quickly agreed, impatient with the deputy, even though she was doing and saying all the right things.

"Down two blocks on the right – Silver Street – you can't miss it," she told Sam, pointing in the direction of the clinic.

Sam was out the door before she finished. He took a quick look at Dean, making sure he was as he left him, and headed toward the clinic. Shortly after Sam parked the Impala, the same deputy pulled up next to him in a patrol car. She rifled through a set of keys she'd taken off her duty belt, picked out one and unlocked the clinic's front door.

"Doctor Honnick says to bring your brother into the first room on the right. She'll be here in about ten minutes," she told Sam. Then she stood back and held the door as Sam carried Dean into the building and toward the aforementioned treatment room. When she got a good look at Dean after Sam laid him on the exam table, she couldn't help but remark, "Damn! What the hell did you say he got attacked by?"

"I don't know for sure, it happened so quick," Sam lied. "I know there're bear, wolf and mountain lions up here, but we honestly don't know. We were just out hiking."

Sam looked around the room and found some sterile water, alcohol and gauze dressings and began cleaning Dean up some more. The deputy wanted to say something to Sam, about waiting for the doctor or not touching her supplies, but Sam seemed to know what he was doing and Dean seemed to need the treatment as soon as possible.

When Sam began cutting away the rest of Dean's clothing, the deputy excused herself, saying, "I'll go meet Doctor Honnick." If Sam heard her he didn't acknowledge the fact.

About ten minutes later, an older woman with a long, gray ponytail rushed into the room, the braid swooshing around her. "What've we got?" she asked as she pulled some latex gloves out of a box on the counter next to the door.

"Animal attack," Sam replied. "Deep gashes on his thigh and shoulder. The leg's already infected."

Doctor Honnick approached the exam bed and took a quick look at her patient. She nodded her head, turned to the deputy and said, "Okay, Bonnie, we got this covered. I'll call you if we need anything else," summarily dismissing the woman.

"Cool. Thanks for coming in so quick, Doc," she replied and left the office.

The doctor returned her attention to Dean and put the back of her hand to his forehead. She nodded her head and then looked at the wound on Dean's thigh, that Sam had just unwrapped. She gently probed the deep gash, eliciting a slight moan and some movement from Dean.

"Let's see the shoulder, now," she instructed, and helped Sam roll Dean onto his side. She pulled the bandage off that wound and winced at the sight of it. "Damn," she whispered. "Okay, young man," she said, looking at Sam, her eyes asking his name.

"Sam," he supplied. "And this is my brother, Dean."

"Okay, Sam," she began again. "You finish cleaning him up. Get as much of that mud and green shit off him as you can. I'll be right back. Gonna get some antibiotics."

Sam looked up at her and met her gaze. The fact that she didn't even ask what that "green shit" was, that maybe she'd seen it before, came through loud and clear. Sam nodded his head and continued cleaning off the mud, blood and slime.

When Doctor Honnick returned a few minutes later, she had several IV bags in her hands. "Couple rounds of this and he'll be right as rain, as far as the infection goes. Then we can stitch him up."

"You've seen this before?" Sam asked.

"Not in a while, but yeah," she replied, cleaning off the backs of Dean's hands, prepping them for the IVs. "Heard about them cattle kills. Had hoped no one would be stupid enough to go after the varmints this time."

"Would it help to know we gave more than we got?" Sam asked in return.

"I'll let you know when we kill this infection in your brother," she replied, starting one IV.

00000

Several hours later had Dean waking up in a strange bed. The last thing he'd remembered was being in the dark woods talking to Sam about a statue made of butter. He moved his head to the side, groaning as a headache made itself known.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Glad you're awake, man."

"Where the hell are we?"

Dean moved to sit up, to get a better look at his surroundings, but found himself being pushed back down onto the pillow by his brother's hands, as well as the overall ache his body currently was.

"The clinic in town," Sam answered, then, added, "It's around noon," in anticipation of Dean's next question.

Dean closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning. When he opened them next, a woman in her sixties, with the longest braid he'd ever seen, was standing next to his bed and sticking a thermometer into his ear.

"I'm Doctor Honnick," she said in greeting. When the thermometer beeped, she pulled it away and looked at the reading. "Down to ninety-nine. Gotta love modern medicine, huh, boys?"

She proceeded to check the wound on Dean's leg, causing Dean to squirm.

"Hey, Doc, at least buy me a drink, first," he joked.

The doctor laughed and winked at him, causing Sam to roll his eyes at their antics.

She injected some pain medicine into one of Dean's IVs and pronounced, "You'll be good as new in no time, Dean," and added, "Just stay away from those damn Dacks," before leaving the room.

"Dacks?" Dean questioned.

"Local speak for Foogers," Sam told him. "Doctor Honnick told me all about them. They've been around the Adirondacks for years. The people that have lived here for a while know not to mess with them. They only come out when they're desperate for food or when someone attacks them first. Those farmers just moved up here this season; hadn't gotten the message yet."

"So, what about the cops?"

"New sheriff in town. Fired all the old deputies, brought in new ones."

Dean nodded his head as he tried to stop a yawn.

"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam told him, a contagious yawn catching him as well. "It was a long night. We could both use some shut eye."

Dean nodded again and closed his eyes, whispering, "Thanks, Sammy."

**A/N: Thanks to November's Guest for beta reading this. And for the Peanut M&Ms! I did not intend this Long Night to become the longest time writing a story. You'd think I'd have more than 16 pages after all this time… Oh well. Thanks to all who have hung in this long and reviewed.**


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